


Vigil

by kaiz



Series: Degrees of Separation [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-13
Updated: 2001-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darius awaits the dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigil

_Our Father_

The room is dark, my eyes are closed, and yet my mind is filled with light. Vivid greens, medieval blues, stark yellows and reds; the slanting rays of sunlight as they stream through the painted saints and sinners on the chapel windows.

And of course, the inevitable flash of silver on his upraised blade.

_Who art in Heaven_

I cry out, force myself awake, and roll to my feet, reaching for a sword that I no longer possess.

These visions; they have been called a blessing or a curse by others, depending upon the gods they worshipped or the land in which I lived. I asked Cassandra about them once. She said, "They are sacred. And terrible."

And so they are.  


_Hallowed be Thy name_

I reach for the glass on the bedside table but the tepid water does nothing to quench my thirst. Nor to banish the fatal image behind my eyes.

Perhaps then, some tea.

_Thy Kingdom come_

Filling and heating the kettle, steeping and then sipping the tea, these familiar tasks calm my shaking hands and soothe my thirst. But do nothing to relieve the dread that has come to dominate my dreams, sleeping and waking.

Is there a difference between the two, I wonder, when matters involve ones own fate?

I asked Cassandra that too. She never replied, merely stood silently, with tears in her eyes.

_Thy will be done_

The moon is new tonight. Subtle and in hiding, as it was the night I first awakened -- wide-eyed with fear, clutching my throat -- to the knowledge of my fate. Then, I lay panting in my narrow bed, the sheets rumpled, damp with sweat and tangled around my bare thighs. And for a time, until the sky beyond my window lightened, I fought against that knowledge. Fought as I had when I battled the ancient immortal's light for possession of my soul in the centuries that followed my fateful sword stroke at the Gates of Paris.

With as much success now, as I'd had then; which is to say: none.

And so every morning since, I have awakened to the possibility that today will see the pattern of colored light fall just so upon the floor and across the wooden chairs in the chapel. That today, I will once again be called evil, an abomination in the sight of heaven. And that I will meet my final end -- ironic perhaps for a warrior-turned-priest -- unarmed, at the hands of a mortal man with fear in his heart and a machete in his fist.

_On Earth as it is in Heaven_

'Today?' I have asked myself silently time and again, while I've gone about my daily chores -- brushing my teeth, or showering, or saying Mass. But thus far, the scythe of Death has passed me by.

Thus far.

_Give us this day our daily bread_

Methos was here yesterday.

We played a game of chess, drank tea, and argued, as usual. He urged me to leave. Also as usual.

I sometimes wonder if it would have made my final days quieter, if not any easier had I not told him of my vision. But then, I remember that he came to me first, all concerns for maintaining his cover fled, red-eyed and sleepless, to tell me of a 'really bad feeling' that he had.

With one look into my eyes, he'd guessed the truth. And he had yet to stop arguing with me about it since.

"Darius," he'd said, quite obviously furious with me but trying to be patient. "I'm not asking you to leave holy ground permanently. Just this church! I own holy ground all over Europe. For the love of god just pick somewhere -- Spain, Italy, Switzerland -- and I'll set it up!"

"I can't outrun my fate, old friend," I'd told him.

"Well, you can sure as hell try." He stalked out of the room then, jaw set and long coat flapping.

I found him in the chapel kneeling before a small statue of the Virgin. His head was bowed and his arms were wrapped tightly around his chest.

"Praying for me, my friend?" I clasped his shoulder lightly; he was trembling beneath my hand.

When he looked up at me, his face was pale and he'd shed no tears, but his eyes were very bright.

"In all my years upon this earth, Darius," he'd said. "I have never known a prayer, or two, to hurt."

_And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us_

In the past weeks, I have had a steady -- and unusual -- stream of immortal visitors. Friends, both new and old, former lovers, and even a few old enemies as well. We argued philosophy, religion, and military strategy, spoke of the old times, and played chess and cards. I even allowed Methos to persuade me to drink my first beer in decades. Exciting times indeed for a man grown so used to solitude.

Some I told of my vision and some already knew. But only a few believed. My good friend Duncan was not among them.

"We each make our own fate," he'd said, sounding so fierce and certain that for a moment, I almost believed.

But the moment passed. "Perhaps some men do," I'd said. "But not this time, Duncan. Not this time."

_Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from Evil_

The proper papers were signed weeks ago; the ink is long dry and the documents are now stored in a fire-proof safe at the offices of my solicitor.

There is little in the way of material wealth; I have always been true to my vows, no matter to which gods or prophets I offered them. But there are my journals of course, and a handful of items, photographs, books, weapons that my friends -- and enemies -- might wish to have.

Be it a thousand years or fifty, what of value do we truly leave behind?

_For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory_

My hands have stopped shaking and I no longer see the flash that precedes the killing stroke. I have finished the tea and the sky is still dark, but dawn is approaching swiftly. I can taste it as I once did on the eve of battle; I sat upon my restless horse, huddled against the chill, waiting for the rising sun to reveal the glitter of enemy armor and weapons, and to herald my victory.

On the morning that we planned to take the Gates of Paris, our breath frosted the air and the newborn sun painted the battlements red like blood. Despite my unease, I had considered it a good omen.

I had dreamed of death then, as well. Death of another kind true, but I was far too callow to know the difference. Then again, perhaps all forms of death are one and the same.

If I close my eyes and hold very still, I can feel the quickening heartbeat of the earth beneath my bare feet and feel the whisper of her exhalations on my cheek.

Oh yes, dawn comes. And with it comes certainty.

_Forever_

I have been many things, some good and others dire. The gods of my childhood have long since fallen to dust and new ones have arisen in their place. The constellations that seemed unchanging, everlasting, have shifted over the centuries, enough for me to notice. And I have held so many beliefs, felt unequivocally certain of so many truths -- that the sun circles the earth and the stars are god's tears. That men don't rise from the dead.

So perhaps this time I am mistaken.

Nevertheless, I light a single candle then kneel in its guttering circle of light, in prayer, until the morning comes.

_Amen_


End file.
